This my story of being an American in Montana and my pursuit of Muscles, Wisdom and other random shit along the way.

That’s Right Bitches…It’s That Time Of Year Again!

Alright…I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking pine cones and dried leaves so I can arrange them in a wicker basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of pine cones and leaves. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BAM! Check out my fucking decorative pine cones, assholes. Guess what season it is…fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of pine cones and dried leaves.

I may even throw some chestnuts into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up. Then I’m going to get to work on making a beautiful fucking pine cone necklace for myself. People are going to be like, “Aren’t those pine cones hurting your neck?” And I’m just going to thread another pine cone onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, “It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.”

Raking leaves in my yard sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-pine cone reenactment of an episode of Friends… specifically the one when Ross, Joey and Chandler experience a homosexual threesome with each other. Well, this shit just got real, didn’t it? Threesomes and Pine Cones have one very important commonality: they’re both extremely fucking real. Sorry if that’s upsetting, but I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.

The next thing I’m going to do is get my “Arts and Crafts” on some of the bigger pine cones and turn them into a perfect replica of the Mayflower as a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I’m going to do lines of pre-workout off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it’s not summer, it’s not winter, and it’s not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fucking heads out of your asses; its fall, fuckers.

Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well then you’re going to fucking love my house. Just look where you’re walking or you’ll get KO’d by the gauntlet of sap-covered, spikey, brown pine cones swinging from above. And when you do, you’re going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned.

For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel muscle shirt, some tattered gym shorts, and a floppy fucking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass bitch-slapped all the way back to summer.